


And so we Rage

by Whenhopediesyoung



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also Raphael, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Bisexual Michael, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Meg 2.0 - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, he dead, it's Gadreel, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-25 08:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whenhopediesyoung/pseuds/Whenhopediesyoung
Summary: She throws a cigarette down like a gaunlet, eyes murderous. Every moves is powerful, dynamic and Michael's been sick of her since he's laid his eyes on her. "Let's go then." He gets up following the hit of her chin, her narrow glare. His father would hate her. "After you."





	And so we Rage

Michael is the eldest of four. He's the only one left alive. Raphael, found dead age fourteen. Gabriel missing since then a full two years ago. Luke... dead to him. When he's honest, when he's alone he'll admit it. He only truely misses Raphael. But there is no solitude to be found in this grimy bar. Not tonight.

A women walks in, tight leather pants, face drawn from drugs and withdraw of said drugs. You can always tell. Her hair is a Mexican blonde, ratty and matted. Michael watches the man with her out of the corner of his eye. Older male, in a suit that has the other drinkers squinting trying to tell if he's as stupid as he looks. Michael, a full year out of the army knows where to really look. Gun. Polished. Resting casually in his half-obscured hand.

A better man would step in. Would try to stop him. Michael, he's just trying to figure out If a shoot out would make the bar tender forget his tab. In a place like this, probably not. God probably avoids this place in case the tough guy tries to settle. Michael shifts his wait, contemplating the door. He might make it. The guy definitely  has too many other boozers looking to run out to chase him down once outside.

"A round for all my friends!" The women crows abruptly, clinging her arms up. Michael makes his move crossing the floor as her 'friend' curses. British. That's unexpected. He's almost free when she tips dizzily into his arms. Soft, surprisingly warm, wearing the decently priced colone Gadreel always favored. She's launched herself at him from the last man she crashed into, who reaches for her laughing. He stops when she whirls, Michael's gun in her hands.

Marine. He's bet his life on it.

The bullet drops the Brit before her new friend can recover. He'll live, but not very well. As Michael watches, close enough to grab it, her left hand slides down yanking bills from a sweat stained wallet. He's half insulted she only bothered to pick his pocket for the gun. Violence stretches the air as the bar looks at the bleeding man as one, pickled brains not yet connecting the dots. "Two rounds." She shouts waving the stolen bills and the bar erupts into cheers.

"You can cover my tab with that too." Michael mutters, leaning close enough to smell the chemicals in her hair. She smirks, not even bothering to spare him a glance. "Afraid you'll end up on the ground next?" Her voice is more abrasive it doesn't so much as ask for attention as grab one's chin and force you into compliance.

Michael follows her back to his chair, letting out a breath as she drops the whole wad on the counter. "Them twice, him as much as he has already, and both of us until we're on the floor." The bartender raises a bushy brow but doesn't argue reaching under his dirty counter to pull out a decent bottle of whiskey that he swore earlier he didn't have. Michael twists his mouth, remembers that's Gabriel's tick and stops it.

"How many years?" She asks, because you have to, it's practically law. Ingrained by year two and countless of beers. "Four as of last April." She nods once. "Soon as you could?" It's empty conversation, she knows the answer the same way he knows hers was the same. "Yup. Army." Her arms are bared by her top, a strip of shiny faux leather. She turns her forearm up, showcasing a legion of scars and a dark tattoo. It's smart, a quick way to weed out people who might have a problem with either. Marine.

"Four?" His first outloud inquiry. A display of continued interet. He doesn't want to sleep with her but it's something to do. "Three. Dishonorable discharge." He grins at that, unable to help himself. A jarhead on the edge of suicidal self-destruction. He hopes Gadreel is laughing somewhere up there. The liquor goes down ugly, but it stays and that's enough.

She tilts her head at him, not coy, challenging. When she holds out her hand, scarred inked up arm on display he deposits the pack of camels sliently. She's not real interested in fucking him either, he thinks. The way she throws her head back at the first drag is interesting at least, and she has thick hair. That's... something.

The bartender glowers at them, refilling their glasses. Beer glasses not whiskey tumblers, poured generously. Michael can't tell if he wants them dead or just out of the bar as fast as possible. Both maybe. He gulps it down, coughs once, nearly drowning and looks back to his drinking partner. Drug thin but putting it behind her. She probably needs a entire pack of cigarettes and a scalding shower, not a lousy drink and an unenthusiastic fuck.

Michael digs into his pocket pulling out some crumpled bills. "You got any food?" Beside him the women throws her head back and laughs. He likes the sound, brutally loud and mean-edged. He could do with some mean. With someone not afraid to give out orders or leave him too hollow to feel after. That's the good thing about the messes, at a certain point they don't care about what they leave behind.

The bartender drops a basket of nachos down like it killed his wife, fierce glower in his eyes. "Great service." The blonde scoffs shoving her hand into the food. He eats anyway, used to bitter stares and meals shared with obnoxious company. The day feels better with a hot meal in his stomach. He might even manage to seem interested later on.

 There's stupid and then there's stupid. The man who drops a hand on his companions' shoulder is clearly the later. He reminds Michael of Zachariah, all arrogance and leers. He turns, only a quarter, enough to not get involved. There's a badge on his hip, shirt half tucked under it in a laughable display of menace. He looks Meg up and down, all fratboy polish and daddy's money unconcerned.

Michael let's his mouth curl up, unfazed and damning. Let's mockery just ghost into his voice, unlike Luke's overblown derision, unlike Gabriel's arrow straight scorn. "You have a name? Or is she meant to guess?" He looks at him now, just barely turning his head, as if he's not worth it. That would drive Luke to violence, the indifferent scorn, would leave Gabriel stung, blinking at him in wounded dismay. It makes this waste of space knot his hand on her shoulder, leaning foward aggressively.

"Deputy Bradly. Heard there was a di-" the cuts off with a howl, shattered remains of his drinking partner's cup in his hand. She turns on her stool, picking up Michael's cup without looking and pulling a deep drink. Eyes still on the deputy she smashes that one, alcohol going everywhere and lives for him.

Shrieking and wounded, the man still avoids her slash, arm winding around her ribs. Michael's half out his chair, reaching behind him for something to help with. He shouldn't have bothered. She rears back, forcing him to stagger blindly. Her foot catches the bar, sending them both down, her on top. She might be face up, but one hand and the glass have vanished from sight, drawing out a squeal.

Planting her feet on either side of his lashing legs she levers herself up, arm twisted awkwardly behind her back. It moves back and forth as she twists, sawing savagely. The arms around her draw away and she leaps up, spinning around. Michael's at his feet the same instant the other man his, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling her back. The deputy's knife narrowly misses her stomach.

Then Michael's let her go and he's on the floor feet kicked from under him. One hand over his knife-wielding wrist, she brings her fist down. Once, twice, again this time with a sickening crush. Only once he whimpers curling away does she get up. Michael sits back absent mindedly grabbing the nearest drink and drowning it. The owner is too busy gaping at the bloodied deputy to complain.

Meg stretches, cracking her neck theatrically. And beings her foot down on his mangled face with a crack.

"All right, I think he's had enough." The bar tender nods at someone behind him to drag the crying man out. "Here, since that idgit spent yours." There's a hint of a smile, hidden in his bristly bear as he drops new glasses infront of them. Michael only half heard his muttered, "Serves him right," focused on a bloody hand reaching for his pack of Camels.

She pushes a hand through her hair, perspiration adding frizz to the rat nest. He watches a bead trace her cheek from her temple, turned red by the neon bar light. The blood on her hands is even darker, given a weight in the shadows. "Meg." She says after several long pulls. Her mouth scrunches upward as she says it, putting the information down like a unwieldy but ultimately unimportant tool.

The alcohol's getting to him, taking her hard edges and emphasizing them, painted in a heavy hand. All mouth made for sneering and eyes that demand to be entertained. You're in my eyeline, they seem to say, get to work. He doesn't give her his name, just lets loose a sigh full of smoke into her face. He's tired suddenly, but he feels like entertaining her, to watching her sneer at him. "I'm sure you have plenty of names to pick from."

Her eyes flash, and she throws the cigarette down like a gaunlet. Every move powerful, dynamic and Michael's been sick of her since he's laid his eyes on her. "Let's go then." He gets up following the hit of her chin, her narrow glare. His father would hate her, he thinks briefly. Someone so self-assured, so utterly confident that she can remake the World with enough bad attitude. "After you."

They go to her place. It's a house that looks abandoned, complete with a beer can strewn horror movie yard. He's positive his thick soled combat boots only narrowly protect him from getting tetanus on the way to the bedroom. Cluttered and freezing, unlike the alarming empty disgustingly humid rooms they pass through to get there. She knocks something heavy to the floor as they reach it, already moving for his belt. He's pretty sure it's a small statue.

"Last chance to get your ego stroked." Her voice is too blunt to be teasing. He grins, safe in the dark, for the first time in forever. "Not looking to get my ego stroked." He's breathless, from the challenging air more then interest, crowding Meg to the bed. She huffs out a laugh, and his cheeks hurt from smiling. "Alright soilderboy, I'll come up with something." The rattle of his belt, she doesn't only undo it also draws it slow and steady from the loops.

A hand braces itself on his chest, pushing back. He goes willing aware of the belt in her hands, the danger of the strange place. His breath comes faster, old warnings crowding his ears. This is the kind of stupid Luke loves, Michael, he's supposed to be better then this. Her voice, when it comes again, is lower. "Strip."

Each sound feels huge in the dark cold room. The drag of his pants down his legs. The russle of his boxers against his legs as he pulls off his jacket. His nerves feel raw as he pulls his shirt overhead doubly blind for several agonizing moments. He's not hard, but he is half gasping. Fear swims all along his skull even as cold gusts of air make his skin pebble and tighten. He's halfway to a panic attack, naked in a stranger's room.

"Get on the bed." Meg orders. The animal part of his brain can feel her heavy eyes even in the near dark. He misjudges her distance as he moves towards it, light on his feet and fast as if the bed can offer him protection. She's standing off to the side close enough that he almost brushes her clothed form. He slides onto clean sheets letting heavy blankets crowd his leg.

He hears her undress, the rasp and slide of cotton and denim. Heard her curse under her breath, near black form leaning over a end table. His lip's quirk slightly at that, fear subsiding. A brief relieved sight as her arms draw up, scrapping her hair back into a ponytail. The soft click of a bra being unbuckled and discarded. A drawer opening makes his tense involuntary, but nothing she draws out sound like a gun.

Then she's climbing over him, all warm skin and soft curves. He's breathless, knocking his head back for a kiss. She indulges him, kissing slow and deep, drawing back with a hint of teeth. "Before I let you finish, I'm going to have your name." She warns, voice warm and teasing. "If you can think we'll enough to remember to ask." He says back, voice low with want.

It sings through him sudden as a rainstorm when her hand slides low. She presses a biting kiss to his neck, licks up to his ear. He can hear the pop of a bottle and cold liquid slides down him. She shifts, sitting upward on his lap one hand braced on his stomach. He can hear where her other hand is, noises made louder by the black. "Oh, I will." She gasps, breathy.

She does. The first time and one after that, and again twice more. Though he only has the opportunity to shout her name once. He doesn't mind it.

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters to come, though this is mostly going to be chronological updates from this universe i.e. no real plot. Will include, their respective families and smut, if I ever figure out how to write it well enough.
> 
> Feel free to shout at me @ Megtheangel on Tumblr. For real, I'm only mean in real life


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